


Draco Malfoy and the Insufferable Auror Partner

by CreateImagineWrite



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Partners, Auror Ron Weasley, Epic Bromance, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Recluse Harry Potter, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreateImagineWrite/pseuds/CreateImagineWrite
Summary: When Draco Malfoy is matched to Ronald Weasley by the Chalice of Chivalry, a charmed device which pairs new Aurors based on compatible skillsets, he assumes it will be utterly insufferable.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley (friendship), Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 19
Kudos: 357





	Draco Malfoy and the Insufferable Auror Partner

Draco Malfoy joins the Auror ranks for a couple of reasons. The first is a desire to do _some_ kind of good after all the bad he and his family have been responsible for. The second is because the Malfoy fortune is gone in reparations, and well, he needs a paycheque. And interestingly, the same skills that let you survive a War while on the wrong side do rather well as a skillset for _catching_ people on the wrong side.

He takes his three years of training, rough as it is, in good grace. The other trainees don’t trust him, and the trainers set him to a higher standard than anyone else, but he exceeds those expectations, and survives. It’s not quite as bad as trying, and failing, to be a Death Eater, in the grand scheme of things.

Still, he admits to some trepidation when the Partnering Ceremony occurs. They’ve all been told what happens here. The ancient, charmed Chalice of Chivalry assesses the skills of the Auror ranks and pairs them appropriately. It isn’t infallible, but it has produced brilliantly matched sets for as long as it has been in use, which, if the trainers can be believed, dates back to sometime when King Arthur was around. Draco privately believes that this is hippogriff shite.

Still, he waits with bated breath as the Chalice spits out partnerships, looking eerily similar to the Triwizard Cup, and finally… finally…

“Auror Draco Malfoy,” the ceremonially clad Head Auror Robbards intones, “and Auror Ronald Weasley.”

Something inside Draco’s head goes blank, as if he’s just been hit with the Imperius Curse, and he turns, very, very slowly, to meet the eyes of the redhead in the crowd, who looks just as horrified as he does.

There’s only one explanation for this.

He’s been bloody cursed, hasn’t he?

//////////////////////////

He expects it to be insufferable. But in all honestly, it isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. He hated the tall, skinny wanker when they were in school, but that had more to do with his father’s (stupid, ridiculous, going-to-get-them-all-killed) views on pureblood purity than anything else. Draco’s not an idiot. Pureblood traditionalism isn’t going to get him anywhere in the post-War world.

And anyway, have you seen what Muggles have been up to lately? It’s 2001! Those… co-pewter things could do stuff eerily similar to magic. It’s bloody insane!

Still, the early days of their partnership do not go smoothly.

“So, uh, how’s Granger?” he tries once on a stakeout, bored out of his skull.

Weasley side-eyes him. “Hermione is fine, why do you ask?”

Draco gestures at the gold ring on Weasley’s left hand. “Just trying to be friendly.”

Weasley says, very stiffly: “I’d rather not discuss my personal life, thanks.”

Draco takes the hint. “Right.”

He knows better than to ask about Potter. No one’s heard anything about him since the War, and his friends are tight-lipped. Draco’s not entirely sure that the Saviour actually survived. His wounds in the final Battle had been… significant.

He tries a new tactic. “So, uh, how about that Falcons game last night?”

This goes down slightly better, and they have an awkward conversation about Quidditch, until the mark shows up, tries to abduct the Mooncalves they’re guarding, and nearly kills Draco during his attempted escape.

“You idiot,” Weasley hisses at him, trying to hold the blood back inside Draco’s split-open thigh. He’s pretty sure he can see his own bone under all the red. The mark is unconscious and bound with an Incarcerous. Damn, Weasley’s a good duelist.

Draco manages a strangled laugh, light-headed from blood loss. “Turns out this will be a short-lived partnership.”

“Fuck you,” Weasley snarls, and that’s the last thing he remembers.

When he limps back to work a week later, Weasley is glaring at him from his desk in their shared office. “Do that again and I’ll kill you myself.”

So maybe he’d jumped in front of a Slashing Hex that Weasley hadn’t seen coming. Not like it was the first time someone had slashed him open. He sniffs non-committedly. “I lived.”

He settles into his desk, leg aching, and starts on the paperwork they’re going to be stuck doing until he can walk properly again.

//////////////////////////

The thing is, for all that he’s completely _insufferable_ , Weasley is a brilliant Auror. Crazily good strategist, excellent spellwork, powerful duellist. He’s also a complete, bloody _Gryffindor_. He operates on gut instincts and sometimes leaps without looking. He’s brave to an absolute fault, and stupidly naïve, and Draco hates him, absolutely hates him, sometimes.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” he hisses, as they’re locked up in the basement of an underground potion smuggler’s warehouse. “Did you not _see_ the vial he was holding?”

“It was a kid!” Weasley hisses back.

“He was _one_ of them!” Draco snarls back. “Are you bloody blind? He had the tattoo on his wrist!”

“Forgive me if I don’t usually expect eight-year-old children to be potions smugglers,” Weasley grumbles.

“You’re an idiot.” He wriggles around until he can get his bound hands in front of him, and flicks open the knife he pickpocketed off the man that tied him up. He, at least, is a Slytherin.

“Where’d you get that?” Weasley asks, bewilderment evident.

“Magic,” Draco growls at him, annoyed. In truth, it was the type of slight of hand that had let him survive having the Dark Lord in his house. “Now get over here, I can’t cut my own damn bonds.”

They escape. Barely.

//////////////////////////

It becomes more and more evident, over time, that the Chalice paired them for a reason. Two years in, they have a higher solve rate than any other partnership in the corps. Draco’s observation skills, survival instinct, and potions proficiency pair extremely well with Weasley’s strategic thinking, spell knowledge, and duelling ability. They work well together. They’ve each saved each other’s lives several dozen times over. They get chosen for all the most difficult cases in the queue.

They are also still the only Auror pairing who still refer to each other by their last names.

“Morning, Weasley,” he greets tiredly. Merlin, he hates graveyard shifts. It’s morning only by the definition that it’s _past midnight._

“Morning, Malfoy,” his partner greets grumpily.

They’re on guard duty for a high-ranking international diplomat on whom there’s been rumour of an upcoming assassination attempt. The diplomat currently appears to be… in bed with someone. The scrying charm is… explicitly detailed.

“Seriously,” Draco says, monotone.

“Bentley says they’ve been at it since ten. Guy’s a fucking exhibitionist.”

“Guess if you’re going to be assassinated, you might as well go out on a high note,” Draco grumbles.

They watch the frantically coupling figures for a moment, completely awkward. Salazar, this job is shite sometimes.

“I could be doing that right now,” Weasley suddenly cuts the silence. “Why the hell did you have to piss Robbards off on Wednesday? That’s the only reason we’re on this damn shift.”

Draco turns to look at him, trying to contain his surprise. Weasley literally never talks about his private life, and definitely, definitely never speaks about his sex life. “Didn’t think you and Granger went in for exhibitionism.”

Weasley turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in an expression that looks rather like horror. “What the hell does Hermione have to do with anything?”

Then the diplomat’s bedmate pulls a knife, and things get rather… interesting.

//////////////////////////

A couple weeks later, Weasley throws a copy of the Prophet on Draco’s desk, an amused glint in his eye. “You thought me and Hermione were married, didn’t you?”

The front page is a picture of Granger snogging Viktor Krum, while wearing a wedding dress. ‘FAMOUS CREATURE-RIGHTS LEGISLATOR HERMIONE GRANGER MARRIES QUIDDITCH STAR VIKTOR KRUM.’

Draco blinks at the moving picture. Granger is… really into it. Krum breaks away and looks at her like she’s the freaking Snitch. Then they lean in and do it all over again. What. The. Hell.

“What. The. Hell,” he says out loud.

“For the record, I’m not married to Hermione.”

Draco re-evaluates several years of his life. He turns to his Auror partner. “Who _are_ you married to, then?!” he exclaims.

Weasley shrugs, still with that annoying amused smile. “I told you, I don’t talk about my private life, Malfoy.”

“Marriage is hardly private,” Draco points out, and gestures at the newspaper as proof.

“Mine is,” Weasley smiles.

Draco eyes him suspiciously. Weasley is more cunning than he estimated. He is simply going to have to be more observant.

//////////////////////////

He’s always thought he had Weasley figured out. Happily married bloke, good Auror, likes Quidditch, loves food (he ate his lunch like a starving man, every time), stubborn as a hippogriff. Nothing complicated. Simple man. Simple needs. But this need for privacy, this suggests something deeper, a secret. And Draco hates secrets. Secrets get people killed.

He spends the next several months applying his observation skills to his Auror partner. These skills are usually used for evaluating criminals and determining what his Mother is thinking behind that perfectly blank mask she wears. They should be perfectly effective for determining what makes Weasley tick.

The thing is, though, that once he looks, Weasley turns into a bloody puzzle.

Weasley’s nails are always carefully, perfectly trimmed and rounded – a conscientious lover, then. But he always has a thin layer of stubble, which suggests the opposite. Weasley’s wife is obviously not in public view, and presumably a homemaker, but Weasley still eats in the canteen, and frequently shows up in rumpled robes.

But it’s the stain on the back of Weasley’s shoulder that really throws him, one day.

He stares at it. It’s weirdly familiar, but he can’t place it. It bothers him for the entire day, until he runs into Auror Everett in the bathroom. The man is exhausted, harried, and he has the exact same stain on the back of his shoulder. Incidentally, Everett also has a newborn baby.

“You have a child,” he accuses, stomping into their office.

Weasley blinks at him, surprised. “Yeah, I have six. Why?”

“Six?!” Draco says, reeling back. They’ve only been out of school for five fucking years. What had Weasley done, stuck his dick in as soon as the baby popped out?

“Yeah. How’d you even know?” he says, suspicious. “We don’t exactly advertise.”

“You’ve got spit-up on the back of your robes,” Draco says, blankly. Six. Six!

Weasley makes a face. “Merlin, really? That’s disgusting.” He tries to look over his own shoulder and fails. “Can you get it, mate?”

Draco wordlessly casts a cleaning spell, and sits down at his desk, mind whirling. “How on earth do you have _six_ kids? We’re fucking twenty-three.”

Weasley shrugs. “Twins run in the family. I’d appreciate if you didn’t shout about it though. We don’t want the kids exposed to the public until they’re in Hogwarts.”

Draco desperately wants to ask who “we” is, but he knows that’ll just shut down the conversation. “Of course. You could have told me you had a bloody baby, though. How are you not as exhausted as Everett?”

Weasley scratches the back of his head. “It’s twins, actually. But I dunno. Practice, I guess? They’re not so bad once you’ve done it a few times.”

Practice, Draco mouths silently. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend. He imagines trying to wrangle a wife, four kids, and two newborn children, and shudders. “You know, someone should have told me you’re superhuman.”

Weasley looks weirdly flattered. “Thanks, mate.”

Draco hadn’t meant it as a compliment. Maybe Weasley’s actually some form of sex demon? What the fuck. Six kids and an invisible wife.

Then another case drops on their desks, and the conversation gets lost in the rush of crime, chase, and capture. And well, curses, naturally.

//////////////////////////

Several months later, Weasley drags himself into their office, looking absolutely exhausted.

Draco eyes him. They’ve just gotten off a three-day weekend. He’s more rested than he’s been in an age. Weasley, on the other hand, looks like he’s been on a three-day bender that ended in an encounter with an unfriendly vampire. He’s pale, his eyes are bloodshot, and he looks like he slept in his robes.

“What on earth happened to you?”

Weasley looks at him, and shuts the door behind him, and locks it. Then he casts a Silencing Charm. Draco’s survival instincts make the hair on the back of his neck stand upright. His fingers open his wand holster on automatic, beneath the desk.

“I need you to cast an infertility curse on me,” Weasley says.

Draco blinks, thrown. “Pardon me?”

Weasley leans back against the door, and slides down until he’s sitting on the ground. Draco has to crane his neck to look at him.

Weasley leans his face against his knees, and mumbles something incomprehensible.

Draco stands up, and goes over to him, nudging him with his boot. His wand is half-out of his sleeve, just in case. “Stop speaking like a barbarian, Weasley,” he sniffs.

The redhead leans back and looks up at him. Merlin, he looks even worse from close up.

“I got him pregnant again. I’m banished from the house until I fix it.”

Draco stares, stuck on the third word. Him? What? “I beg your pardon?”

“My husband’s limit is seven kids and I’m not allowed back until I can promise he’s not getting knocked up again.”

Draco’s mask fails, and he gapes at him wordlessly. “Husband?”

Weasley stares at him impatiently. “Is that seriously what you’re focussing on right now? I am literally not allowed back in my own fucking house and I’ve been told to expect divorce papers if I can’t sort it out, and you’re stuck on ‘ _husband’_?”

Draco opens and closes his mouth like a particularly stupid grindelow. “Excuse me if I need a second to process all the things my Auror partner hasn’t bothered to tell me.” Then it clicks. “Bloody hell, you’re married to Potter, aren’t you?”

Weasley blinks at him, still shocked by Draco’s leaps of logic even after the years they’ve been partnered.

“You knocked Potter up _seven_ _times_?”

“Only five, actually. There were two sets of twins. How did you –”

“You had to have married someone right out of Hogwarts, they live outside of public limelight, and they are, apparently, male. It wasn’t a big leap,” Draco snaps. “Why didn’t you _tell me_? I thought he was dead!”

Weasley shrugs. “He prefers it that way.”

Draco sputters, and then tries to regain some sense of equilibrium. “How long do you have? Before the divorce papers?”

“Five days. He’s very upset,” Weasley says. “The problem is, I’ve got Incubus blood in my paternal line. Contraception is barely effective.”

Ha, he’d been right! He _was_ a bloody sex demon!

“I’ve been in the Hogwarts library for two days. The only thing I’ve come up with is an infertility curse. But it’s… uh… not exactly legal.”

“And so you thought you’d ask me?” Draco asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re the only one I trust. I’m not letting Harry touch anything that Dark while he’s pregnant. And Hermione’s too public a figure.”

Draco blinks. “You… trust me.”

Weasley stares at him like he’s daft. “Yeah, mate. We’ve been partners for nearly three years. You’ve had my back for ages. You’ve saved my life like, thirty times.”

Draco doesn’t quite know what to say. Half of him suspects this is a way of buttering him up, but Weasley’s never been cunning enough for that. He also thinks Weasley is an idiot, trusting an ex-Death Eater. “You’re an idiot,” he tells him.

Weasley shrugs. “I know.”

Draco glares at him and whips out his wand. “Fine! I’ll do it. But you’d better tell Potter that this cancels out that bloody life debt I owe him.”

Weasley looks ridiculously relieved for someone who’s about to have his genitals cursed.

Also, he should have just asked. Draco’s known about fertility curses since he was six. Idiot.

//////////////////////////

Nine months, twenty-three solved cases, and twelve brushes with death later, Weasley stops him with a hand on his shoulder as they’re finishing up their shift.

He seems to flounder for a second, and Draco glares at him. “Spit it out.”

“Do you want to come for dinner?” he blurts out, very fast, so it’s more like “D’ya’won’dinner”.

“Pardon?”

Weasley takes a deep breath. “Harry and I would like to invite you for dinner. On Saturday. At six.”

Draco narrows his eyes. This is a first. “Why?”

Weasley scrubs a hand through his hair, ears tinging red.

Suspicion infuses Draco’s being. “Look, Weasley, I am not at all into blokes. If this is some kind of invitation to a threesome…”

Weasley makes a horrified noise, eyes going very, very wide. “No! Merlin! No, of course not. We just thought you might want to meet her.”

“Meet… who?”

“Uh, the seventh. She was born three days ago.”

Draco pauses, considering. “You want me… to meet your baby.”

Weasley’s ears go very, very red. “Look, I’m just going to ask. Harry wants you to be godfather.”

Draco’s brain blanks. “What?”

“We were going to ask you after like, six glasses of wine. But if you’re going to be all suspicious.” He waves his hands like an imbecile.

“You want… _me_ … to be godfather?”

Weasley stops waving his hands around, and looks at him, serious as a centaur. “Yeah, mate, I really do.”

Draco stares at him. “You’re an idiot.”

Weasley shrugs. “I know.” It’s a familiar exchange.

“I’ll be there,” Draco agrees, stiffly, and then swishes out the door.

//////////////////////////

Later in the evening, Weasley owls him the address, and he realizes Weasley might not have been the only idiot involved in the conversation.

//////////////////////////

The address Weasley gave him is a very large, very secluded estate on the outskirts of Wiltshire. It is, in all honesty, not all that far from the Manor. Through the extremely powerful privacy wards, all he can see is a very large iron gate, and an equally large border hedge.

He hasn’t the slightest idea why he’s here. It’s probably some sort of trap. Potter, his childhood arch-nemesis, wants _him_ to be godfather for his youngest child? He suspects a Confundus Charm. But despite himself, he actually does trust Weasley. Not that he’d ever _tell_ him that.

He stops just at the edge of the wards, very aware that they are keyed to rip him apart if he expresses any level of ill will, and knocks, very, _very_ lightly.

He tries to blank his mind of expectations and assumptions. He hasn’t seen Potter in six years. The man has apparently gone from hating his guts to wanting him to be potentially responsible for his tiny probably-ginger-haired spawn. He takes a deep breath. It’ll be like a case. The case of the insufferable Auror partner and his reclusive, mysterious lover, who also happens to Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. The Saviour of the Wizarding World. The Defeater of Death Eaters. The carrier of seven fucking children.

For Salazar’s sake, he’s not ready for this at all, is he?

It’s too late to back out though, as just then the wards warm up, and then press past him, pulling him inside. It surprises him, the way they envelope out and around him, like a friendly Warming Charm, but he goes. The Manor’s wards were never that friendly, more like an icy blast, cold and assessing. This feels a bit like getting attacked by a particularly friendly crup.

The gates open on automatic, and then he is greeted with the sight of a fairly large mid-century manor. Smaller than the old Malfoy Manor, but certainly large enough to be respectable, even by pureblood standards. The gardens are simple but beautiful, low maintenance, and he can see a Quidditch pitch at the edge of the property. It is lovely. Certainly fancier than his own two-bedroom flat.

He realizes he is gawking like a peasant, and shakes himself before striding up the walkway towards the front door. The gates shut behind him with a soft clang. Merlin, now he is trapped here with Weasley, Potter, and their brood.

He knocks sharply on the door, using all of his energy not to twitch and adjust his dress robes. He hadn’t had any idea what to wear, so he’s gone with traditional wear for the first visit to another family’s ancestral home. It is probably excessive, if his judgement of Weasley is anywhere near the mark.

He’s right. When Weasley opens the door, he is wearing jeans and what looks like a hand-knitted jumper. Draco supresses a sigh of resignation. Thankfully, he wore more casual clothes beneath the robe.

“Hey, mate,” Weasley greets, looking harried. “Come in.”

Draco strips the robes off as if they’re actually outer robes and not perfectly respectable dress robes, which Weasley has obviously never heard of. His slacks and button-up shirt are still far too over-dressed, but Malfoys simply do _not_ wear jeans.

Weasley hangs the robes up on a set of hooks. The front entranceway is a disaster. Tiny coats, tiny shoes, something that looks like a child’s plaything gathering dust in a corner. His mother would be horrified.

In the distance, Draco can hear children shouting gleefully. It fills him with dread. Again, why in Merlin’s name is he here?

Weasley rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, come on in. Harry’s in the kitchen.”

He leads the way through the house. There are wizarding photographs all over the hallway, hundreds of pictures of tiny children, as well as a bunch of redheads that must be Weasley’s family. It is chaotic and kitschy, and Draco is unwillingly charmed anyways.

The sound of children playing gets louder as they go on. There is laughter, and shrieking, and the sound of feet running around on the floor.

“James,” a deep voice calls through the house. “Leave your sister alone.”

“Okay, papa!” a tiny voice calls back. The sound of playing continues unimpeded.

Draco has no idea what to expect, so when they enter the kitchen and he sees Potter for the first time, the polite greeting on his lips dies in entirety.

Potter is standing at the kitchen island, plating something, and there is a tiny pink creature attached to his chest with some sort of blanket-like device. She, and it has to be the baby Weasley mentioned, is absolutely tiny. But that part he expected.

What he doesn’t expect is Potter himself. His hair is a familiar riot of black curls, and he’s still short and slight, just like he always was, a Seeker’s build. But what really hits him is the scarring. He’d seen the injuries in the final battle, the raw skin and blistering from the Fiendfyre the Dark Lord had cast in the final duel, but he had assumed that it had been healed.

Apparently not. The right half of Potter’s face is pockmarked and red, from jaw to cheekbone. His eyes are unaffected, still bright green behind his glasses frames, which are much more stylish than the pair he wore at Hogwarts. But still, the sight makes Draco’s stomach drop, like he’s missed a step on the stairs.

“Hello, Potter,” he manages, trying to drag some semblance of pureblood manners back into himself. It didn’t do to _stare at people_. Especially people responsible for the world’s continued survival.

The Saviour smiles at him, easy and light. “It’s Weasley, actually. The kids are Potter-Weasley, but I… well… I wanted a change.”

“Weasley,” he corrects on automatic, and then turns and glares at his Auror partner.

Weasley shrugs. “It was going to be confusing if you called us both Weasley.”

The… other Weasley raises an eyebrow. “You still use last names?”

This was intolerable. He grits his teeth, and tries, “May I call you Harry?”

Potter-Weasley-dammit shrugs. “Only if I can call you Draco.”

Draco grits his teeth harder, and glares at his Chalice-chosen idiot again. “Fine. Harry, it’s good to see you. You have a lovely home.”

Potter (Harry!) barks a laugh. “It’s a bit of a disaster, but you can blame Ron for that.”

Weasley protests: “Hey! I clean up my messes.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Darling,” he says, in a way that sounds _far_ more like a threat than an endearment. “We have seven children, and it is entirely your fault.” Something crackles through the room, and the hair on the back of Draco’s hands raises.

 _Danger_ , a small part of Draco’s brain says.

Weasley does not seem unaffected. “Of course,” he agrees hastily. “Entirely my fault.”

Draco thinks he should amused by how whipped the man is. Maybe he would be, if the room didn’t feel like a chamber filling up with ritualistic Dark magic. Something he’s actually experienced, thank you very much. What the fuck? Has Potter always been this powerful? Surely he would have noticed. Though, then again, his magic sensitivity was trained after Hogwarts.

Then green eyes are turned on him. “And you, apparently, are my saviour.”

Draco blinks, having half expected an attack. “Pardon?”

The dark-haired man eyes him for a moment, and then some of the danger seeps out of him, and he is just a bloke carrying a baby, standing in a kitchen. “Sorry, I’m a bit keyed up. I did just give birth – _for the fifth time_ – four days ago.”

Draco doesn’t really want to think about it, but he assumes it was awful. Judging by the way Weasley is still easing away, he also judges that it isn’t a good time to make jokes. “You look wonderful, for someone who just carried.” He wants to slap himself a moment later. That was something someone said to women. Damn his ingrained manners.

Harry looks pleased though, a faint smile gracing his lips. “Thank you.”

There is a high-pitched scream from the other room, and suddenly Draco’s sense of danger spikes right up back to the roof.

“James!” Harry thunders, crackling with magical energy like a storm cloud. “What did I just say?”

“Sorry!” a small voice squeaks from the other room, and then a tiny red blur flees into the kitchen, and latches directly onto Draco’s leg.

Draco stumbles, startled, but the small child is quite firmly attached to his calf.

“Lily,” Harry sighs. “Is that any way to treat a guest?”

The tiny creature sniffles against his leg, and Draco is rather out of his depth. ““Hello,” he greets, bemused.

The tiny head tilts back, long red hair tumbling backwards, and he is greeted by devastatingly green, huge, tear-filled eyes. Merlin. Was that a child, or a cherub?

Her lips quiver.

“Er, it’s quite alright,” he tries, desperate to dispel any oncoming tears. “Are you harmed?”

She shakes her head, and then hides her face back in his slacks.

Harry glares at Weasley. “He’s _your_ son.”

Weasley yelps, and then vanishes into the other room, where everything has gone suspiciously quiet.

“Lily, angel,” Harry tries, voice soft. “Can you let go of Mister Malfoy?” The storm cloud of magic is dissipating, but Draco is firmly reminded that he is standing across from a very powerful wizard, even as it fades. It’s amazing how someone with a still-sleeping baby strapped to their chest can be so terrifying.

The tiny Potter-Weasley spawn attached to him just clutches his leg tighter.

“Sorry,” Harry says. “James’ accidental magic is taking off and he’s not very good at controlling it.”

“It’s… alright,” he says. He carefully reaches down and pats the girl-child on the head, as if petting a potentially unfriendly cat. She looks up at him, eyes still brimming. “There, there.”

Harry snorts.

The child seems reassured, however. She lets go, and then reaches two chubby arms up towards him.

Draco hesitates, unsure, and she sniffles, waterworks threatening again.

“She wants to be picked up,” Harry informs him, tone highly amused.

Hastily, Draco reaches down, and then lifts the (surprisingly heavy) child onto his hip. She immediately latches onto the collar of his shirt, and tucks her head into his collarbone. He freezes.

Harry chuckles, and when Draco looks at him in panic, starts laughing in earnest. “Merlin, your face! Have you never held a child before?”

Draco is reluctant to admit he has not, but it must read in his face.

Harry sobers. “Well, there’s plenty to practice with around here.” His face sours. “Which, again, is Ron’s fault.”

Draco doesn’t quite know how to address this. “Did you not… want…”

Harry’s eyes widen. “No, no. I love all of these little tykes. I have, however, been pregnant or dealing with newborns for near six years now. I think I’m entitled to a little bitterness.”

“I’d hardly deny you it,” Draco sniffs. Seven bloody children. Salazar.

Harry softens. “I do want to thank you though. Apparently this tiny baby girl is the last. Thank Christ.”

Draco sniffs, uncomfortable. “I should thank you. I’ve wanted to curse that idiot for years. It was highly satisfying.”

Harry laughs. It lights up his whole face, and his shoulders shake. The baby doesn’t even stir.

Draco tilts his chin at the sleeping baby, unconsciously rocking the other girl-child on his hip. She sniffles slightly into his collar, but otherwise doesn’t complain. “Do we need to be quiet, for that one?”

Harry glances down. “Oh Godric, no. Localized silencing charms. I’d never get anything done without them.”

“Smart,” Draco says, impressed. “What’s her name?”

“Luna,” the man says, smiling. “I got tired of naming them after dead people. Depressing.”

Weasley comes back into the room then, looking like a beaten crup. It’s such a difference from the confident Auror Draco’s used to seeing that he half suspects Polyjuice potion. “James is in time out,” he reports tiredly. “Gideon and Fabian are floating things into the playpen again. And Mipsy just about has Hugo and Rose out of the bath.”

“Mipsy?” Draco questions.

“Nanny-elf,” Harry clarifies. “Paid, of course.”

Weasley blinks at him. “Are you… holding Lily?”

At the sound of her name, the girl-child perks up. “Dada!” she says.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Weasley greets, still looking bewildered. Lily makes grabby hands in his direction, and Draco quite willingly hands over his burden. Thank Merlin.

The child latches around Weasley’s neck, and he rocks back and forth, soothing. He shoots a look at Harry, but the brunet doesn’t look back. Draco feels a bit like he’s intruding on a very long and drawn out matrimonial battlefield.

Well, this is certainly far more interesting than he’d expected.

Harry looks down at whatever he’d been plating, and seems to remember he was doing something. “Ah, right. Dinner! Why don’t you go through to the dining room?”

The dining room in question is nothing like the fancy dining hall Draco was once used to at Malfoy Manor. There is a long table piled with food, but the walls are covered in children’s drawings, and there are children’s high chairs and booster seats scattered all around it, as well as few step stools he recognizes are for house elves to use.

“Sorry,” Weasley apologizes. “I should have told you it would be incredibly informal. We’re not really up for anything… fancy.” He waves his arm around at the room, seemingly unconcerned with the fact he’s supporting a tiny fragile human with only one arm.

“I should have suspected,” Draco acknowledges. There’s a tearstain on his collar, courtesy of Lily Potter-Weasley. “Though a… warning may have been appreciated.” He glances back towards the kitchen, where Harry is humming faintly.

Weasley slumps. “Yeah, he’s always like this, right after the birth. But he insisted you be here, and it was either invite you or be in the cruphouse again, so. Don’t tell him I told you about the godfather thing, he’s really set on it being a surprise.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest. “He’s… different than I remember.”

The redhead shrugs. “He’s… Harry.”

The man in question comes into the room, carrying the last plate of food. He sets it in an open spot on the table, and then looks around, assessing. He seems to approve, because he raises his head towards the other doorway, and shouts: “James, get down here!”

Draco flinches, not expecting the volume.

A few moments later, a tiny replica of the Boy-Who-Lived skids into the room. His hair is perhaps a bit lighter, and his eyes are brown, but Draco is still rather struck by the resemblance. The boy-child is perhaps five years old. Probably the first-born, then.

“Apologize to your sister,” Harry thunders.

James hangs his head, and goes over to Weasley, who is still holding the girl-child.

He tilts his head up, eyes pleading. Lily looks down at him, eyes narrowed in a glare that is surprisingly vicious for a child her age. It’s the most adorable thing Draco has ever seen.

“I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to,” the boy pleads.

The girl-child turns away and hides her face in Weasley’s shirt, huffing.

James reaches up and tugs on her pantleg. “I’m really sorry.” He bites his lip and looks down, and then carefully cups his hands together, and furrows his brow. There’s a short moment where nothing happens and Harry goes very high-alert near the doorway, but then a sparkly butterfly suddenly appears in James’ hands.

Draco’s eyebrows raise. Impressive.

Lily looks down, attracted by the sparkles.

“Here?” James says, eyes big. “To say I’m sorry?” The butterfly flies out of his hands, and settles in her hair.

Lily makes a shrieking noise, and then giggles. She squirms, and Weasley lets her down. She runs to her brother and hugs him. “Okay.” Then she runs to a nearby high chair as if nothing has happened, butterfly glittering and fluttering in her hair. “Up! Up!” she insists.

Weasley walks over to oblige her.

James looks at Harry, who narrows his eyes at him. “You’ll be more careful in the future?”

The boy looks at the ground. “Yeah, I’m sorry, papa.”

Harry nods. “Alright. Go sit.”

James climbs into a chair with a booster seat on his own, using a tiny step stool. He still looks subdued.

A few seconds later, a house elf appears, trailing two tiny red-head children. They are identical in every way, from red hair to brown eyes. Draco is vividly reminded of the Weasley twins. They are nearly the size of James. Second-born? The house elf helps them into neighbouring high chairs. They notice him once they are seated, and stare.

It’s a bit creepy. They’re totally silent.

Draco stares back, resolute, and then feels a deliberate prod at his Occlumency shields. He reels back, surprised.

“Fabian! Gideon!” Harry scolds them. “What have I told you about reading people’s minds?”

Weasley grimaces. “Sorry. They’re natural Legilimens. And they’re only four.”

Draco stares at him. “Obviously,” he manages. What on earth is in that man’s bloodline?

Gideon and Fabian simultaneously burst into tears, and Harry sighs, and goes to crouch down next to them. “It’s not polite to try to read people’s thoughts,” he says. “Why don’t your use your words?”

One of the twins sniffles. “Hi?” he tries.

“Hello,” Draco returns, a bit amused. He does have Occlumency shields, so it’s not as if anything harmful occurred. “My name is Draco. What do I call you?”

“Deon,” the boy says.

“Pleasure to meet you, Gideon,” Draco informs him.

“Fabi!” the other twin says, obviously wanting in on the conversation.

“Nice to meet you as well, Fabian,” Draco greets. The names sound familiar. Old family, perhaps?

The twins seem satisfied.

“Where’s Mipsy, Seb?” Harry asks the house elf.

“Seb does not be knowing, Master Harry,” the house elf says.

“Ron, can you go check?”

Weasley nods and vanishes again. Harry fusses around after he’s gone, serving helpings onto tiny plates, and then notices Draco.

“Oh, you can sit, if you like? It’s always a bit chaotic, really.”

“Certainly,” he says stiffly, from where he’s hovering near the wall. “Is there a particular… seat?”

Harry glances around, and realizes the problem. He draws his wand, and conjures another chair. His magic is like a crackle of lightning. Draco supresses a shudder.

He sits in the chair gingerly. He’s next to James, who is pushing peas around his plate mournfully. Harry is quite busy with Lily and the twins, even with the nanny elf’s help, so he decides to make himself useful.

“I take it you are the oldest?”

James looks up at him. “Yeah.”

“Big responsibility,” Draco informs him, making sure to put approval into his voice. “First born of seven. You’ll have to protect them all.”

James perks up, puffing up his chest. “I’ll protect all of ‘em!”

Draco smiles. “I’m sure you will.”

“Papa says I have strong magic.”

“You do,” Draco agrees. “But strong magic is no good if you can’t control it.”

James deflates a little. “I’m not so good at that.”

“Then you’ll just have to practice,” Draco tells him. He is slightly… charmed by this tiny creature. “You’ll get better with time.”

“I will?”

“You will,” Draco assures.

James grins, considerably cheered up, and starts shoveling peas into his mouth with gusto.

Draco looks up, and realizes Harry is staring at him with a raised eyebrow. Draco schools his face to blankness until the other man looks away, smiling. So he doesn’t like seeing sad children. Sue him.

Weasley chooses to return at that point, a child on each hip. Draco is beginning to believe there is an endless supply. They are similar in appearance, but one is obviously a girl and the other a boy. They are quite small. The second set of twins? Fraternal, evidently. The girl is sobbing into Weasley’s shoulder, and the boy doesn’t look far off.

“Meet Hugo and Rose,” Weasley introduces tiredly. A nanny elf pops into the room.

“And Mipsy,” Weasley adds.

“Mipsy is being sorry!” the house elf squeaks. “Miss Rose be losing Professor Whiskers.” She holds up a very beat up stuffed cat, and the girl-child who must be Rose makes a thrilled noise. The house elf floats the stuffed animal into her arms, and the child immediately stops crying. The boy also seems appeased.

Weasley eases the two of them into highchairs, and then collapses into the adult-sized chair next to Draco. “Sorry, you can probably serve yourself now.”

Draco looks at the spread of food, and then at his empty plate. “Any recommendations?”

Weasley shrugs. “Whatever you can get before it’s gone. They eat more than you’d think.”

Given the rate James is shoveling food into his mouth, Draco doesn’t doubt him. He fills his plate from the table, and Weasley does the same. Harry has finished fussing with Lily in the chair next to him, and Seb and Mipsy are dealing with the two sets of twins.

Draco nods at the still-sleeping baby as Harry sits down. “What about that little one?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ll feed her when she wakes up. She’s breast-fed.”

Draco blinks. The baby-carrier device obscures the man’s chest, but he can only assume… He takes a sip from his water glass, and tries to dispel the thought.

Then James starts up an innocuous conversation about what it’s like to be an Auror, and he is thoroughly distracted.

Dinner passes with minimal interruption beyond babbling toddlers and curious questions from the older children. There is an occasional press against his Occlumency shields, but he mostly ignores it.

He is surprised that the dishes on the table are almost entirely empty by the time they’re done and little Lily is yawning into her plate. How do beings so small eat so much?

The nanny elves eventually begin to shuffle everyone off to bed in batches. James, Gideon and Fabian are allowed to stay up a little later, and Draco regals them with very watered-down versions of his and their father’s missions, but eventually they too, disappear upstairs, and it’s just him, Weasley, and Harry, plus tiny still-sleeping baby. Weasley and Harry are sitting next to each other on a sofa, and Draco is arranged in a comfortable armchair just opposite.

“She still hasn’t woken up,” Draco notes, surprised.

“They sleep a lot, in the beginning,” Weasley says.

“Thankfully,” Harry agrees. “She’s been very good, actually. Sleeping through the night right now, though that might change. Newborns are strange, sometimes.”

Draco shakes his head. “You’d be the expert.”

Both men chuckle. Weasley makes a very small movement that takes him closer to Harry.

“Would you like wine?” Harry offers. “I still can’t drink it, but we do have it.”

“Please,” Draco agrees, and soon has a fairly nice glass of Pinot Noir in hand. When Harry sits down, Draco notices he is just slightly closer on the sofa. Perhaps Weasley is not as badly in the cruphouse as he thinks.

Not that he deserves it. Weasley, the plebeian, is drinking Butterbeer.

“You are a peasant,” Draco informs him, scowling at the bottle.

Weasley shrugs. “No offence, but wine is like, really, really bad grape juice.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. “That is literally the definition of wine, you imbecile.”

Harry laughs. “I’d wondered what it was like, you two being partners. But it’s like, three parts insults, two parts fondness, isn’t it?”

Draco splutters. “I’m not _fond_ of him.”

Weasley coughs. “Yes, you are.” He shifts, and his thigh presses against Harry’s on the sofa. Harry doesn’t pull away. Hmm, subtle. Draco approves.

Still, he glares in response to the comment.

“So, what did you think of last week’s Harpies match?” Harry says, taking them into safer territory, and the conversation about Quidditch carries them for a while longer.

In that timespan, Weasley gives a very fake, very impolite yawn, and stretches his arms over his head. It is cliché and utterly ridiculous, but it ends with his arm over Harry’s shoulders, and the brunet is too busy laughing to even notice. He settles into the embrace on automatic.

Weasley is more cunning than Draco gave him credit for. He feels strangely proud.

Suddenly, the baby shifts and makes a tiny noise. All three men freeze, and Harry waves his hand. There is a crackle of wandless, wordless magic, and he must have broken the silencing charm.

“Hello, sweetpea,” Weasley greets, leaning in towards the tiny infant.

The pink creature makes a scrunched up face, and then opens her eyes. She doesn’t have hair so much as colourless fluff, and her eyes are the light blue of a newborn whose eye colour hasn’t settled. She makes a whining noise, opening one tiny fist.

Weasley offers her a finger, which she clutches. Her fingers are _so small_. “Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?”

Draco seriously doubts that the baby can understand him, but she seems to like the soothing cadence of his voice. She squirms a bit, and makes an unhappy noise.

“She’s always hungry,” Harry chuckles. He leans over, as if the movement is a familiar habit, and kisses Weasley lightly on the lips. “I’ll be back in a bit. I need to feed her and put her down for the night.” His hand drifts over Weasley’s arm, and then he’s gone.

Draco raises an eyebrow, impressed. “That was very subtle.”

Weasley widens his eyes innocently. “What do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you’re as deeply in the cruphouse as you think.”

Weasley shrugs. “I’ve done this four times already. This time I have the advantage that I won’t be knocking him up anytime in the future. Thanks for that, again.”

Draco doesn’t acknowledge the gratitude. There’s only so many times a man can thank you for cursing his loins, after all. Still, goodwill is a solid foundation for an interrogation, and he has so many questions. He sips his wine, considering.

“How’d you two even end up together?” he asks, casually. “Last I knew you were obsessed with Granger and Potter was half-engaged to your sister.”

Weasley smiles, but Draco’s right, he’s not tight-lipped here, in his home. “Long story, really, but the short of it is that the War… revealed a lot of things.”

Draco can only agree with the sentiment. He’d learned a lot of things. The fact that his father was stark raving mad being one of them. “What sort of things?” he presses gently.

Weasley tilts his head, pursing his lips. “I was a bit of an idiot in school.”

“Obviously,” Draco mutters into his wine.

Weasley shoots him a glare. “And I did some stupid things. During the War, I got… separated… from Harry and Hermione.”

Interesting. He’d never known the Trio to be anything but a Trio.

“When I got back,” Weasley continues, “they’d gotten closer, and I realized I was _jealous._ And not of Harry, but Hermione.” He shrugs. “Which, well, put a lot of things in perspective.”

Draco considers. “Wartime romance, then?”

Weasley chuckles. “Merlin, no. We were a little too preoccupied, with, you know, _Voldemort_. But after the final battle…” He gets pensive.

Draco thinks about fire, and scars, and the mountains of dead laid out in the Great Hall. His wine sits heavily in his stomach. “He saved all of us.”

The redhead smiles in a way that’s more of a grimace. “He lost a lot. And it was me who was there afterwards, every moment of the recovery. When he couldn’t talk, or sleep, and his magic went insane.” He pauses. “I almost lost him.”

Draco swallows another sip of wine, trying not to overthink it. “But you didn’t.”

Weasley’s smile is a little more genuine. “I didn’t. And, well, it didn’t take much once I got my head spelled on right. I’ve loved him since I was eleven, and I know him better than anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Seduced him, did you?”

Weasley’s ears flush pink. “Not well, but it, er, worked.”

Draco decides he doesn’t want details. “When’d you get married?”

Weasley’s ears redden further. “Uh, well, James happened, and Mum would’ve Avada’d me if I had my firstborn out of wedlock. So.”

“Not very usual, accidental male pregnancies,” Draco points out.

Weasley is beginning to resemble a tomato. “Er, pretty common in my family. I was an idiot, thought the whole spiel about Incubus bloodline was a lark. Woke up pretty fast when I was suddenly going to be a dad, though.”

“I can imagine,” Draco says, and decides interrogation has probably reached its maximum usefulness. “Still, seven kids. Isn’t that a full Quidditch team?”

Weasley beams. “I hope so!”

They shift to lighter topics, Quidditch, some work talk, whether street food is acceptable nourishment (Weasley is wrong), which fills the time until Harry descends back down the stairs.

He’s no longer wearing a baby, and he’s got on an oversized sweater that is probably Weasley’s, judging by the length of the sleeves. It makes him look shapeless, but maybe that’s what he’s going for.

Harry settles back on the couch, and accepts Weasley’s arm when it goes over his shoulders.

“She go down easy?” Weasley asks.

“Easy as always,” Harry confirms. “At least so far.” He turns his attention to Draco. “Sorry, I had hoped you’d get to hold her, but she was asleep the whole time.”

Draco viciously supresses the expression of horror that wants to rise on his face at the concept of holding something that tiny and… pink. “That’s alright, perhaps another time?”

Harry nods, but looks a bit disappointed. Draco suspects that holding the child had something to do with his godfather plans. Though to be honest, he probably would have accepted, if just for the promise of being able to hand her back to someone.

Weasley takes over. “Look, Malfoy, there’s something we want to ask you.” His eyes meet Draco’s, and he makes a hand symbol behind their back that is their Auror shorthand for ‘just play along.’ Draco supresses a scoff, as if he needed the signal. Weasley couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.

“And what’s that?”

Harry cuts in. “Well, without you I’d probably be looking forward to yet another pregnancy in a few months. Luna is going to be our last-born, and well –” he bites his lip. “I just thought it would be fitting, if you were her godfather?”

He’s so hopeful, so tentative.

Draco pretends to consider, and Harry’s tentative smile fades a bit. Weasley glares at him. “Well, I admit I’m rather shocked. Are you quite certain I’m the best fit? An ex-Death Eater? Terrible with children? I might even infect them with Slytherin tendencies.”

Harry huffs. “You’re an excellent Auror, you’ve saved my husband’s life dozens of times, the kids all love you, and I’d like to encourage the Slytherin tendencies if that’s how it goes, thank you very much.”

Weasley startles a little bit at the last part, but Draco’s a little overwhelmed by it all.

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Well, in that case, I’d be honoured.”

Harry smiles like a Lumos Charm has been lit in his throat, bright and beaming. “Excellent!”

“Slytherin tendencies,” Weasley mutters, but he goes ignored.

Harry babbles through a series of godparent ceremonies he’s been considering, and Draco just listens. There’s a strange, warm feeling in the middle of his chest, and he doesn’t think it’s the wine.

//////////////////////////

Six years later, they’re training a new set of idiot trainees. There’s a terrified witch trying to block his mild jinxes with a faltering shield charm, and he hates his life.

After they break, he glares at his Auror partner. “This is your fault.”

Weasley grimaces. “Sorry, when I asked Robbards for an assignment that would keep us home on September 1st, I didn’t think he’d choose… this.”

“There is a reason I didn’t choose to be a Hogwarts Professor,” Draco grumbles. “Look how young they are. They’re children. It’s horrible.”

Weasley snorts. “They’re all of age. And don’t front. You like kids.”

“I _do_ _not_ ,” Draco protests haughtily.

Weasley leans back against the breakroom counter, and raises an eyebrow at him. “What’s Luna’s favourite colour?”

“Green,” Draco says, despite the fact he knows where this is going. He’s a good godfather, dammit.

“Did you, or did you not, buy every single one of my children a training broom when they turned seven?”

Draco glares at him. “You’re interrogating me.”

“Mate, my kids call you Uncle Draco. You buy ‘ _the best gifts’_. You tell ‘ _the best stories’_. You bloody love kids.”

Draco sniffs. “I tolerate your brood, Weasley.”

“You should really have one of your own.”

Draco stiffens. “Are you plotting with _Astoria_?”

Weasley shrugs. “Maybe.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Weasley says, smugly.

//////////////////////////

Draco goes to King’s Cross on September 1st. He’d say it’s because he naturally, has to have the same off-days as Weasley, but he could also be at home with his wife, so, really. 

“Uncle Draco!” a voice screams, and he’s nearly bowled over by a blur of black and green as he turns toward the barrier entranceway.

He catches her only by virtue of years of experience, and accepts a chokehold around the neck, squeezing back. She’s heavy, six years old and getting taller by the day, Merlin. He groans theatrically. “You’re going to knock me right over, one of these days.”

She giggles, and lets go, dropping back to the ground and grabbing his hand.

“Where are your fathers?” he asks, looking around. He knows this is the first time the whole family has been out in public, not in smaller groups, no glamours or notice-me-not charms. He would expect them to be close together.

“Oh, I ran ahead,” she says, cheerfully.

Draco freezes. She did _what_?

Validating his sudden dread, three seconds later, Harry bursts through the barrier. He has Hugo and Rose in hand, and seems to take up the whole station, energy crackling across the platform. The entire crowd turns to look at him.

“Luna Camellia Potter-Weasley!” he thunders. “What did I say?”

Luna wilts and tries to hide behind her godfather. You could hear a pin drop on the cobblestone floor. Every voice in the station has gone silent. Harry doesn’t notice. He storms over to them, and exchanges the younger twins for his daughter.

Hugo and Rose lean into him, and he ruffles their dark hair.

“I told you to stay with me,” Harry says, starting to sound more worried than angry. He’s checking her over for injuries, his magic beginning to rein as he realizes she’s unharmed.

“I’m sorry, papa,” Luna says in a small voice. “I wanted to see Uncle Draco.”

“You can’t run away when we’re outside. It’s not safe.”

Weasley appears. He’s got Lily in hand, and the older twins and James are with him. James is pulling a trunk, and one of the twins is carrying his owl. The firstborn child looks nervous.

“You found her?” Weasley asks, looking relieved.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. 

“You can’t run off like that, sweetpea,” Weasley scolds. “You could get hurt.”

Luna bursts into tears at the reprimand, and Harry lifts her up like she weighs nothing, which Draco can personally attest is not the case. She buries her face in his shoulder, her long dark curls pouring along her back. “I’m sorry,” she sobs.

Harry sighs. He’s almost back to normal again, less magic all over the place. “It’s alright, sweetie. Just don’t do it again, please. I get worried.”

Worried is an understatement, Draco thinks.

She nods furiously, curls bouncing.

“Do you want to see Uncle Draco?”

She twists to look at him, brown eyes brimming with tears. Dammit. He probably needs to scold her too, to show solidarity, but those _eyes_. “Do you promise to hold onto my hand?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I promise,” she sniffles.

He holds out a hand, and Harry sets her down so she can take it. The twins migrate back to their papa now that his hands are free.

“You are trouble,” Draco tells his goddaughter, fond.

She shrugs, rubbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her pretty green dress. He’ll make a Slytherin of her yet.

“Hey Uncle Draco,” James greets, joining the group. He looks like a nervous Thestral, all tall and stretched out, eyes darting around. How he eats like a hippogriff and still looks so skinny, Draco will never know.

The whispers in the crowd are starting up. Draco ignores them. “Hello, James. Ready for your first year at Hogwarts?”

“Uh, I hope so?” He glances around at the station, and then says, quietly, “Do they always stare so much?”

Harry looks up and glares at the crowd. The onlookers take in the familiar face, the scarring, and most quickly glance away.

“Where’s Andromeda?”

Weasley, who’s taller than all of them, leans up and looks over the crowd. “She’s over there, near the entrance.”

“Teddy!” James suddenly exclaims, looking much more cheerful.

A boy appears out of the crowd, this one with unnaturally bright-blue hair and a massive smile. “James!” he cheers. “Are you ready? You should come meet my friends!”

James looks up and checks with his dad. Weasley nods, and the boy vanishes into the crowd with the third-year student, who also happens to be Draco’s rather distant cousin.

“They grow up so fast,” Harry says, in a strangely small voice.

Weasley wraps an arm around his waist. “He’ll be fine.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “If they put a philosopher’s stone in the school while he’s there, I’m homeschooling them all.”

Weasley nods, as if this is an entirely normal comment. “First sign of three-headed dogs, we’re done.”

“Uncle Draco,” Lily says, catching his attention before he can ask a question about the couple’s bizarre paranoia. “The twins want to ask you something.”

Draco looks down, and realizes that Gideon and Fabian are staring at him with big, pleading eyes. He sighs. “Use your words, boys.” They’re still rather non-verbal, even at nine years old and with speech therapy, though at least they know not to push on his Occlumency shields anymore.

The twins push out some stuttering questions about the train, and Hogwarts, and the Houses, and before he knows it, it’s eleven o’clock, and James is hugging them all and running into the train, nervousness gone.

“Remember to owl!” Harry shouts after him.

“I will!” James shouts back.

They watch the steam engine trundle down the tracks and disappear.

Harry makes a wounded noise. “I miss him already.”

Weasley squeezes him. “On the bright side, you have six others.”

Harry punches him in the shoulder. Draco’s pretty sure he deserves it.

//////////////////////////

Their co-workers (and The Prophet) are hopelessly confused the next day. It’s hilarious.

//////////////////////////

“So,” Weasley asks one afternoon. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Draco drops the case report he’d been reading, and glares. “She told you, didn’t she?”

Weasley shrugs, not making eye contact as he writes notes at his desk.

Draco glares harder. He strongly dislikes the comradery that his Auror partner and his wife share.

Weasley continues perusing his report. It’s maddening.

“Fine,” Draco growls. “Astoria is… pregnant.” Very pregnant. Vomiting, hormones, threw a shoe at him this morning when he attempted seduction. Pregnant.

Weasley looks up and grins at him. “That’s amazing!”

“This doesn’t mean you’ve won,” Draco snarls, snapping the report open again.

Weasley raises an eyebrow. “So you still don’t like kids?”

Draco stares at the report.

“You’re not at all excited for a tiny blond child that looks half like you and half like Astoria?”

His eye twitches.

“You’re not looking forward to reading Babbity Rabbity, with the voices? And buying tiny pint-sized green dress robes?”

He drops the case report.

“I hate you,” he groans.

“No, you don’t,” Weasley chuckles.

Draco glowers at him. He’s insufferable.

Weasley smiles cheerfully at him for a solid minute. Then he sobers. “Look, do you want advice on how to survive a pregnancy with your marriage intact, or not?”

…Alright, so he’s not really _that_ insufferable.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I wrote this. I just have this really deep-set personal trope that Weasleys are super virile for magical bloodline related reasons, and I've been reading some Rarry lately, and also thinking about the concept of Ron and Draco as epic bros, and well, this happened. I have no excuses. It doesn't even really have a plot. But you know, I wrote it in two days, so what does anyone expect. I have three other actually outlined and plotted fics on the go, but I make no promises about their delivery dates.
> 
> Also, I've decided I hate present tense. I CAN'T BELIEVE HOW OFTEN I REALIZED I'D SWITCHED BACK TO PAST AND HAD TO FIX IT!!! UGH!!! Hopefully I've caught them all, but this isn't beta'd, so I apologize if not.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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